The First Cut
by Sylar Tanka
Summary: A war story. Seriously a war story so characters die.


**Okay so this is a little unusual. This is a war story that I wrote for my AP Literature and Composition final. It was supposed to be meta fiction so there was originally a portion that went with it that explained exactly why and how I wrote it. So if it seems a little funny that's why. But all the character names are Hetalia character because I knew my teacher would never know so I figured it'd be fun to put it up here.**

**I don't own Hetalia**

The platoon hit the ground at O' three hundred hours leaving the men to the wilderness and the enemy. Johnson knew the woods the best, as this was his third time dropping in on this particular front, so he was the leader as they moved towards the trenches. Then there was Kirkland, our best navigator, he had the map—if Johnson were shot, Kirkland would take his place. Following them were two Polish men who'd lived in America their whole lives, but didn't speak much English. They were pissed that Germany touched their homeland, one told me, so they signed up as soon as they could.

Following the Polacks was two of the scariest men I'd ever met. First was Braginski, a huge Russian fellow who had emigrated just before the war. His voice and face were childlike in disposition, but there had been moments back at base when he would get drunk and beat down any man who came too close to him. He was a cannon, ready to be fired and in many ways that's what made me fear him the most. Second was a Swedish man who wore glasses, he didn't speak and when he did it was in very broken English. I saw him rip the throat of a German machine gunner clean from his neck. After that I decided I didn't want to associate too much with this man.

Directly in front of me, was my best friend. Alfred Jones was a loud mouth from the streets of Brooklyn and our best shot with both the standard issue rifle and pistol. He claimed that he hadn't shot before basic training, but I knew better. Growing up on the streets of a rough town like he did—you learned things. His helmet covered his shiny blonde hair, and as we descend into the trees, his deep blue eyes becoming his only defining feature on the occasion we would glance at each other.

The front was about two miles through the forest and then the last half mile was up a hill until we could drop into the trenches. I stuck close to Al as I always did. Bringing up the rear because I had the sharpest eyes in the trees, it was easiest just to walk back to back with whoever was in front of you. Briginski was originally supposed to be in Al's position, but Al offered to take his place in the fire and maneuver team so we could be together. We were the best for the job anyway.

Before we had left, we had listed the things that we didn't need to think about. We didn't need to worry about the Germans being in the woods; the front would hold and it wasn't something that we doubted. We didn't need to worry about carrying food rations; there had been a food drop just a few days prior to our arrival and we would only be in these particular trenches for two weeks, though, Al still carried M&Ms in his pack as he always did.

We did need to worry about ammo. Each of us carried a pack full with as much ammunition as possible. This was our actual mission. Move as much ammo into the front line trenches as physically possible because it couldn't be dropped in like the food was. The Germans were smart enough to take out any jeep holding ammo supplies heading for the front lines. So we were sent to carry it by foot.

"_We're the Army's personal pack mules," _Al had said once. It wasn't until this mission was set in front of us that I really understood why he'd said it in the first place. That was Al's nature, to state facts without stating facts. I liked that about him.

Once we were about a half a mile into the forest it became clear that something was terribly wrong with this situation. It was quiet. By now we should be able to hear the muffled sounds of occasional fire between trenches, but nothing ever came. It wasn't until we were three quarters of a mile into the tree line that Johnson stopped us signaling for Braginski to bring the large radio he carried on his back.

"Front line, are you there?" Johnson held the receiver in the palm of his hand. There was no response, Johnson looked to us clearly deciding whether he wanted to make sure we all returned safely or dies here in the forest.

"Jones and Williams, you two head up slope and scout out the situation. We'll buckle down here and build a shelter." Johnson explained. Al and I nodded turning our backs on the rest of the squad before we ran off.

The forest floor rolled and sloped until it through the foot hills of a mountain. So no matter where we were in the forest there was always a high vantage point of some sort. Al and I were the fastest runners so we took the slope in stride moving at an angle as to not lose our footing as we went. We settled near a group of trees surrounded by a ring of thick bushes, but as soon as we reached this point we heard the first shout get let off.

Al pushed me to the ground before I could think and he was now lying on top of me. We crawled into the bush and peered down towards our squad men to find them safely nestled behind several trees. No doubt the gas would come. They needed to move before that happened.

"Al we need to create a diversion," I whispered even though no one was near enough to hear me over the ruckus of machine guns.

"Yeah, but how?" He questioned. I rifled through my back for a moment and revealed several flares with wicks varying in length. He looked at me for only a moment before he started to dig at the dirt. If we propped the flares up they would shoot into the air and distract the Germans long enough for the other men to get to higher ground. Our only problem was that it may bring us under fire.

We placed the flare with the longest wick first lighting it just before moving on to the next. After we'd positioned and lit the last flare the first rocketed into the air lighting leaves, singeing small branches, and sparkling as they went. When the second flare went off the bullets followed as the German's turned their attention in our direction. I saw a flash of Johnson running the rest of the men away from us as we stayed pinned under fire.

"Matt, I'll distract them you go," Al said suddenly. I stared in disbelief; never had Alfred Jones ever suggested we separate from each other's reach in battle.

"Are you fucking crazy? Like hell I'm leaving you," I yelped. There wasn't anything that could convince me to leave in this moment, but the flares were drawing nearer and nearer to our position and Al seemed disgruntled with the idea of it reaching us.

"One of us is not going to survive this Mattie. It's best that it's you and not me," Al wriggled to the front of the bushes we were under. I followed and peered down into the tiny valley created by the hills. Our men were gone, or at least out of sight, but the gas had just seemed to move into the space. It curled and reached towards us while it sat stuck into the basin the hills created for it. "Matt, I don't have a gas mask."

I stared at Alfred. Yes, Al was certainly forgetful, but of all things to leave back at base. My eyes shifted between Al's face and the spot on his belt that was supposed to hold the mask. It wasn't there at all. Instead Alfred "Loudmouth" Jones had brought with him an extra ammo bag.

"You're an idiot."

"I know."

"I'm not leaving."

"Yes, you are." The final flare placed just behind us went off.

"Shit!" We yelled simultaneously as we pulled ourselves back behind the small mound of dirt that concealed the roots of the bush.

It was then that the devil got Alfred, or at least that's how the man back at base said it to me. A bullet lodged itself deep into Alfred's chest just above his heart and nicking his aorta or some important vessel that carried blood. There in the cool September air with no one, but me and God watching Alfred F. Jones was shot and was now bleeding on the forest floor.

"Al! Alfred stay with me!" The scream came from my own mouth, but I couldn't hear it. As Alfred lifted his head to look at me, gun in hand, he handed me a small knife which triggered a short memory.

"_If I ever die," Alfred mumbled as we sat in a trench somewhere in France, "it better be by the hand of one of my fellow soldiers and not by those damned Nazis." _

This is what drew me into Alfred in the first place. He cared more about his honor than why the war was being fought. He was fighting for his own reasons and no one was going to tell him that he _had_ to die in their hands. He would make that decision for himself. And now he was making it.

"Matt please," He mumbled, "I don't want these bastards to take me."

The next thing I felt was the knife being pressed into my fingers. I shook my head and made an attempt at handing the knife back to Alfred. Alfred writhed a little in pain as blood began to slip from his lips.

"Please Matt, let me go," Al's words sounded garbled from the blood that was accumulating in his mouth. Alfred had done this very thing for other soldiers, Matthew had seen it, but he never thought that he himself would be doing this and not to Alfred. I opened the knife slowly and rolled Alfred onto his back.

Shit. How was I going to do this?

Alfred moved his hand running his finger over his neck. The creep was smiling. He had come to terms with his own death in less than a minute and Matt couldn't muster the strength hold up the knife. I shook my head one more time before resting the knife on Alfred's skin.

Al's hand rested on top of mine as he pushed me on to slice open his neck. I couldn't stand to watch; I just let Alfred's hand guide my own. When I looked up, I saw the life fade from Alfred's blue eyes. The color rushed away from his face, but the blood stained his pale skin. It covered my finger tips in horrific ooze as I moved to close the knife and tuck it into my pocket then retrieve his dog tags.

"I love you Al. I promise." I say as I tear my helmet off and pull on my gas mask. My next move is to run uphill in the opposite direction that my squad had headed, but before I go I remove Alfred's money clip. The metal loop held no money actual money in it, but it did hold a large number of business card. Hopefully, his sister's address was still in the mix somewhere.

I darted out of the bushes. The fire had stopped at some point when I was holding the knife so now seemed as good a time as any to run. Gun in hand; I rounded until I was outside the trees again.

"Williams?" A voice caught my attention. It was Braginski, who was about to hop into a jeep driven by Kirkland.

"Wait for me," I ripped off the gas mask and grabbed onto the back of the jeep hauling myself up onto the bumper. I felt Braginski's hand help me in as I was nearly knocked off when Kirkland started driving.

"Where's Jones?" Braginski asked.

"Dead." I muttered.

"I am sorry Matthew." Braginski's English wasn't very good, but the words helped.

"The front has been taken by the Germans," Kirkland glanced back in my direction, "as you could probably see. We're heading back to base any men that were left alive were taken prisoner."

"Yeah," I responded, unthinking, as I played with Alfred's dog tag. I slid it around my neck so I wouldn't lose it. This wasn't something I wanted to forget; Alfred was someone I didn't want to forget.

"Johnson and the Polacks managed to get in the other jeep and they're a bit ahead of us. We'd gotten separated on our way out of the woods and one of the Polacks was hurt so they left…"

Braginski patted me on the head as we sat listening to Kirkland talk. The scenery passed by quickly and I couldn't really see the details of the trees anymore. When we got to base, either Kirkland or Braginski took off my pack for me while I found my old bunk—it had been beneath Alfred's—and slept.


End file.
